


Loose Ends

by Arnie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epilogue, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Arnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John felt it was bad enough that he'd been kidnapped by Moriarty, even worse that he'd been forced into a semtex parka in order to play head games with Sherlock, but to add insult to injury, Moriarty had stolen his jacket.</p>
<p>An epilogue to The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Ends

John wandered into the kitchen, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. He'd slept well, despite the events of the night before, but it had been a bad week and last night had hardly put a dent in his sleep debt. The rest of the week had to be better, he hoped. At least they weren't likely to be running around solving puzzles set by a mad consulting criminal. Well, not unless whoever had distracted Moriarty was boring him already.

Yawning, John opened the fridge, and thanked all the Gods he could think of that there was enough milk left for tea. He'd have to go out to Tesco's later on, of course, but at least he'd be fortified with tea and toast before he had to do battle with the chip and pin machine. He made the tea and put the last of the milk back into the fridge, then paused and opened the fridge door again.

Oh no. He sighed and shut the door. What had Sherlock done with that blasted head? John really didn't want to come across it unexpectedly; once had been enough for that. Okay, so it wasn't in the fridge...

Bread bin, of course. Just the right spot for John to find it while making breakfast. He slid the lid up a few inches, then opened it fully when he realised the most horrific thing on view was a stale Warburton's loaf. Okay, so not in the bread bin.

Oh, he was being stupid - it'd be in the freezer. Obviously so Sherlock could find out the coagulation rate of frozen saliva or something, with the added bonus of putting John off the fillets it had been sitting next to. He pulled open the freezer door but, while the packet of fillets was sitting innocently on the shelf, the head was still nowhere in sight.

John sighed and began searching through the kitchen cupboards.

The only unsettling thing he found was a jar of what might have been pickled onions but, equally, might have been pickled eyeballs. John made a note to make sure any foodstuffs were safely labelled before he put them away, and to not serve anything from an unlabelled jar. Putting the jar back in the cupboard, John headed into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?"

"I thought you were making tea." Sherlock sounded distracted as he gazed at the newspaper.

"I was. Where's the head gone?"

"You don't need the head to make tea."

"No, I know that. I just want to know where it is before I...find it."

He got a glance across the top of the paper for that, then Sherlock reached behind his chair and brought out a hatbox.

"You put the head in a hatbox?"

Sherlock shrugged, dropped the box to one side and returned his gaze to the page. "It seemed appropriate."

"Okay, fine." At least it wasn't lurking in the kitchen waiting for John, and it meant there'd be more room in the fridge for actual groceries. The week was definitely improving.

Once his tea and toast was consumed, John felt even better, and decided he'd head out to Tesco's before his good mood wore off. With any luck, he'd be back long before the workmen turned up to fix the windows too, so he'd be able to stop Sherlock from annoying them too much. John grabbed his wallet, then dug around under Sherlock's Belstaff coat for his jacket.

It wasn't there.

Shaking his head, he ran up the stairs to his bedroom. He remembered heading straight up to his room after he got in, so he must have taken his jacket off up there. It wasn't on the chair with his other clothes though, nor was it in his wardrobe. John looked around his room, scratching his head. What on earth had he done with it?

He'd definitely had it the day before - he'd worn it to keep the chill off from the boarded-up windows. He'd kept it on when he left -

Moriarty. Moriarty had stolen his bloody jacket.

John fumed. Bad enough that he'd been kidnapped by Moriarty, even worse that he'd been forced into a semtex parka in order to play head games with Sherlock, but to add insult to injury, Moriarty had stolen his jacket. Not that Moriarty had needed his jacket - anyone who could afford suits by Westwood was hardly likely to wear jackets from Oxfam. Nope, he'd undoubtedly done it to piss John off. And he'd succeeded. He'd probably had the jacket stuffed and mounted on his wall as a trophy too.

Stalking downstairs, John marched into the sitting room and announced, "That rat bastard stole my jacket."

He got another long glance for that, a rather wide-eyed and slightly intrigued one. "Moriarty?"

"Do we know any other rat bastard?"

"There's always Mycroft."

"Mycroft wouldn't steal my jacket," John replied, feeling that, at least, was a point in Mycroft's favour.

"Hmm. Not unless you were in it."

John sighed; that was also true. "I'm going to Tesco's and Oxfam; do you want anything?"

He got another long glance for that, then, "No, thank you."

John paused. He didn't like to make a fuss, but a decapitated head was just disturbing. "When are you returning that head?"

"I've got some work to do in the lab," Sherlock said from behind the paper. "I'll drop it off at the morgue on the way."

"Good." John mentally crossed his fingers that Sherlock didn't return with anything worse.

It didn't take John long to get to the nearest Oxfam shop, which was good as he was feeling distinctly cold by the time he got there. There wasn't much of a range on offer though, and since John flatly refused to wear a bright orange coat on the grounds of it'd make him far too easy to kidnap - not that people seemed to find that difficult - and wearing an ankle-length coat would make him look like an exceptionally short Sherlock-wannabe, it seemed his only choice was a thigh-length, waterproof mid-green coat. John eyed it for a few moments, then took it to the till. At least it was cheap enough that it wouldn't break the bank.

~~~

Back home, he put away the groceries, then took the opportunity to update his blog. He sometimes wondered whether Ella was still reading it, and what she thought of it. 'Nothing ever happens to me', well, he was wrong about that, wasn't he? Though he'd prefer his life with fewer decapitated heads and consulting criminals, of course. Thinking on that, he backtracked a little and took out the mention of the decapitated head. If he left that in, Donovan would be convinced Sherlock had finally snapped and killed someone. And left the evidence in the fridge for John to find, obviously.

The doorbell rang and John got up, hoping it was the workmen at last. It was, and he retreated to the kitchen as they set about making almost as big a mess as that bomb had.

Mrs. Hudson joined him, and accepted the cup of tea he offered her. "My windows are done, but it'll take hours to clean up that mess they've left. And all this hammering too."

John hmmed as he wrapped his hands around his warm cup. "I'm not looking forward to the clean up." He winced as a workman went past, smearing putty with every step. "At least the insurance covered the windows. It's a pity they won't cover a cleaning service."

"We could do with one of those with Sherlock around," Mrs. Hudson returned, a sharp tone in her voice. "He had feet in that fridge the other week - not even on a plate! Who does he think cleans up after him?"

John's gaze met hers and they chorused, "Me!"

Mrs. Hudson took a sip of tea and glanced around the sitting room. "Talking of whom, isn't he here?"

"He went off to the lab."

"Best place for him while this is going on. Mark my words, we'll both regret it if he comes back before they're finished."

"At least your windows are done," John offered in consolation. "I just hope they get my bedroom ones done before Sherlock upsets 'em."

~~~

Fortunately for them all, the workmen had finished and left (tracking putty all the way) before Sherlock got back. John had just finished scraping the last of the putty off the ceiling (and how it had got there was a mystery) and was returning the ladder to Mrs. Hudson when the door flew open and Sherlock, and a gust of wind and rain, came in.

Sherlock eyed the ladder, then commented, "The workmen are finished then." He handed a bag to John before disappearing up the stairs.

John sighed, dumped the bag on the stairs and continued carrying the ladder into Mrs. Hudson's part of the house. By the time he got upstairs, bag in hand, Sherlock was in the kitchen and apparently reorganising the contents of the fridge.

"What are you doing?" John asked, though he had a good idea; Sherlock was worse than a cat for bringing home dead bodies.

"I need room for this." With the air of a magician, he produced a full-sized human arm from a bag.

"Jesus!" John stepped back as it was waved in his direction. "Can't you bend it? And at least keep it in the bag!"

"No - it'll sweat in the bag." Sherlock stepped back and eyed the fridge. "I'll have to wait for the rigor mortis to wear off," he said, laying the arm on the table, "but there'll be room on the top shelf."

"The top shelf, right." John made a mental note to scrub the table and keep any leftovers well and truly covered. He looked up and realised Sherlock was giving him an odd glance.

"Don't you like it?"

"Like...?"

That pale gaze darted to the bag in his hand. "If you don't, I can take it back."

John opened the bag to find a brown suede jacket - a _really_ nice brown suede jacket, that undoubtedly cost a hell of a lot more than the green coat he'd bought that day. "This is..." He looked up. "You bought me a jacket."

"I didn't want you getting cold at crime scenes; it's distracting."

John grinned as he pulled the jacket out and tried it on; it was a perfect fit, of course. "It's...great. It's better than great - it's fantastic. Thank you."

Sherlock shrugged and grabbed the kettle off the side, turning to the sink. "I put it on Mycroft's credit card."

~~~

John spent the evening waterproofing his new suede jacket, and, as the weather was supposed to be dry, he wore it to work the next day. He got a number of compliments on it, and returned to Baker Street feeling that things were looking up.

"The postman left a parcel for you this morning," Mrs. Hudson told him, fetching a rather large, brown paper parcel from her flat. "He tried to put one of those 'sorry we missed you' notes through the door but I caught him before he could run away. I don't think they like doing their job, half the time. Something wrong?"

John looked up from the tear he'd made in the paper and the very familiar looking black material he could see within it, and forced a smile onto his face. "Uh...no. I'll just... Sherlock!"

As Sherlock came clattering down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on John's arm. "What is it, love?"

He looked at Sherlock as he answered. "I think it's my jacket."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he took the parcel carefully, turning and placing it on one of the steps. "Do you have some scissors, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, over his shoulder.

She disappeared through the doorway and John followed, taking the scissors from her, giving her a smile, then closing the door in her face, though if that parcel contained a bomb, he doubted it'd do much good. After a few moments, there was the sound of tearing paper, then Sherlock straightened.

"No bomb. I suppose that would be too obvious."

John moved forward, peering over Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock bent over the parcel again, sliding his hands among the folds of material. "There's no way he just sent it back."

Sherlock stopped, then slowly, carefully, worked an envelope out of one of the pockets. "It's addressed to you."

John felt his stomach tighten as he gazed at the 'Johnny boy' on the front of the envelope. He took it and used Mrs. Hudson's scissors to cut it open. Pulling the note out, he gave a snort of disgust and handed it over to Sherlock.

"Dear Johnny boy, please find enclosed your jacket. Many thanks for the loan. It's a pity you didn't like its replacement but you did look rather washed out in it. Yours, Jim." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then folded the note and slipped it and the envelope into his pocket. "At least you have your jacket back."

"Yeah." John took the jacket and watched as Sherlock gathered up the brown paper. "Makes me wonder what else he's got planned."

"Jim'll fix it, remember? He'll turn up, sooner or later."

As Sherlock headed up the stairs, John sighed. That was what he was afraid of.

The end  
12th August 2012


End file.
